


Twist

by archea2



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Clothed Sex, Film Noir, Hints of sub!Mycroft, Hopeful Ending, Humor, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Masturbation, Porn with Feelings, Post-Season/Series 04, Voyeurism, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-29
Updated: 2017-04-29
Packaged: 2018-10-22 05:31:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10690752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/archea2/pseuds/archea2
Summary: Post S4: Mycroft's desperate resolve to keep himself to himself - and his vintage noir porn - takes an unexpected turn.





	Twist

**Author's Note:**

  * For [theoldgods (missandei)](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=theoldgods+%28missandei%29).



> Dear Minebyrights/theoldgods,
> 
> I, um. Am nowhere near certain this is what you had in mind when you suggested that Mycroft should have a little solo moment with noir porn and mentioned Mycroft/John/Sherlock as a favorite pairing. Somehow, I grabbed the two, mixed'em, threw in a few of your wanted kinks, shook hard, ran away with the booze, and voilà. I hope you can enjoy it all the same! Thanks for a great letter.

_Mycroft Holmes gets a kick out of pics._

Tale as old as his time at MI6.

_Give the man a dark room and a scrap of dirt on film, and watch his tongue suckle at his teeth. Mm-hm. The moment he steps into the surveillance room? Man’s as hard as a lead-lined pipe. Dip your gaze, quickly does it, and you’ll catch his one-eyed camera up and rutting against his taupe tailored bags. Full focus length, I tell you. Just, don’t let him catch you catching him._

Better not, indeed. Or…

_Or he’ll give you the Look, pal, and click! you’ll be joining his Holmes-o-rama, every flinch and squirm on record in his gallery of Men My Blink Has Brought to their Knees. Cross my heart and hope to live._

…Nothing but the truth. But only halfway true. For one thing, it is not as if his days were all CCTV play and no work. Like Shakespereare’s Puck, Mycroft is an actor too when he sees cause. (Wig and stays and pince-nez, to make Sherlock smile again; furry hat and Slavic gutturals, beard and oilskin and dropped ‘aitches to make sure that Sherlock lives.) And then there’s the misunderstanding, old as time too, that a nine-to-fiver whose job it is to make his peers his bitches will bring his work home. Please. Mycroft has few hours to call his own, and he’s not going to waste them fancying himself as a dom to Comrade Putin or Smith from Tech Logistics.

Domming is all in a day’s work.

And Mycroft’s nights are… fuelled by another fare, although it does require a private peeping room.

The films are specially couriered to him. Black tape spools, their hard casings only labeled with a title and a date, but they’re enough to get Mycroft’s mouth slick at first sight. The dates stretch back across three decades, while the titles run the full gamut from the wink-wink retro ( _Afternoon Thyrst_ ) to the witty retro ( _My Bare Lady_ ) and – his sweet spot, nightly indulgence with a touch of dark – the no-holds-barred noir retro ( _That Gun’s Going Off!_ ). All vintage: some the real thing, some high-end, near-undetectable forgeries; their actors walking today’s streets but you wouldn’t know it from the tapes, which creak and glitch at all the right places. Nor from the men themselves, quoiffed and dressed to the nines in period clothes that are the real thing, or nearly, down to the long shirt tails ritually bunched up and lifted by an eager hand over a quivering buttock. Mycroft pays for it all and gets his money’s worth.

It’s collateral, yes, against the day this room is found out. Sex is a regular trip-up in his game, but Mycroft’s erotica are too old-style to damn him overly. Set the clock back on your porn, he knows, and you’ll be safe enough: a connoisseur, still within the pale of public indulgence. But the sleek black pools are more than that. They’re what it takes for Mycroft to go down into night mood, his corrosive grey zone switched to a starker, white-and-black capture of flesh in the act. Bodies, larger than life, fill up a wall of the room and suck Mycroft in, gleaming, wicked and in-your-face – their tongues licking a swath across his eyeballs – until he’s bent forward, mouth and placket wide open, the vein corded up his cock a fat long pulse raising their ethereal fucking to a 3-D grind. 

And then, the reel spools out. The tape hits the air with a _snap_ , the ghost crack of a hand to curved, smackable flesh, and it’s a dark room again.

 

* * *

 

John Watson’s call catches him red-handed, one hand deep inside the padded envelope, pulling out the latest case.

”Latest case,” says John’s voice, curling at the edges, and Mycroft feels a pang of panic before his ear reconnects with the familiar humdrum of Baker Street. ”Boxed and closed. Thought you might want to know.”

Ah, yes. They do that, now. Last year has been – _annus terribilis_ , the Eurus year, a blow-up to every stone Mycroft had cemented between her and Sherlock, not caring if he walled himself up in the process. But with the breakage has come breakthrough – something laid bare, between he and Sherlock; left open-ended and thus disablingly fragile. They have quicksilver minds, Sherlock and he, and now, with the walls down, Mycroft feels like a mercury drop on the run, straining to roll across and merge itself with its brother.

And John knows. John, clever, grieving and unstable, has watched the tug of gazes between Sherlock and Mycroft, the silent _Where do we go from there_. Nine months, Mycroft thinks, since he stumbled home from one of his big bad cars and found Doctor Watson at his door, the deep-set creases on his face sharpened by moonlight.

”How’s Sherlock,” Mycroft asks, now as last year, raising John’s midnight echo in turn.

”He’s fine. We’ve just got home. Will be plucking at the strings in a tick.”

 _Plucking_ , John says, and Mycroft knows from the moist plosive that John’s tongue has been at his lips. Blunt, ordering lips – for some reason or other, John always wets them prior to calling. Mycrofts moves his eyes back to the dark casing. _The Man with the Twisted Soul. 1931_. ”The case…”

”Mm, yes. Quaint one, that. Hubby on the run, or so I thought, only Sherlock deduced young Neville was a part-time stripper. Bit on the side, not quite the honourable thing.” A beat. A quiet chuckle. ”So he and I went undercover. Uncovered, even.”

”You went…” _Uncovered, adj. Bared, peeled, denuded, stripped, exposed, open, displayed_. No. No! It’s been a hard day’s night, and Mycroft has it cut out for him. He can’t have desperation, not now. Can’t have these two break in _again_ and steal the show, can’t have them even guess that Mycroft is pricking up his groin at the white-hot impropriety of John’s _uncovered_. 

”Well, I. I, ah, take it you’ve found your man and packed him off to bed by now.”

”Are we talking Sherlock or Mr N.?”

Oh God. A flash-still – Sherlock’s bed, its sheets left twisted and gaping as if they were still coming down from orgasm, through the open door. A voyeur’s appetizer. And Mycroft is always made to sit in the chair facing that door, when he calls – which is why he so seldom does.

(He's caused enough heartpain to his family as things are. Better one hour of lonely friction to the bogus orgasms of strangers than the risk of misreading Sherlock’s urgent gaze, John’s repeated invitations to drinks and grub, and ruin their newfound trieve. Mycroft knows what ravage comes from those who _want to play too_.) 

”I… I have to hang up now, John.” His palm, too sticky and too soon, clenches at the case; wills its hard edge to punish his flesh, leave it red and smarting. Half hard, and only half repentant. Sometimes, it feels as if that drone never fired, and Mycroft is still standing on their rug, still and eternally within arm’s reach of them, ticking for a release that never comes.

”Give Sherlock my best,” he croaks across his breath. ”Tell him I’ll be seeing him soon.”

”You will” – laconic, half dangerous, before John hangs up.

 

* * *

 

He knows better than to whitewash his mind after the call: nine months have proved long enough to work up a coping routine. Instead, Mycroft takes the spool out and feeds it to the projector. The next thing is to coat his mouth with Scotch, no soda, and light a cigarette hard upon it – it’s to be a noir night. Then tip the room into darkness, let the film on, lean back into the padded embrace of his chair. On his second swallow, he starts a slow, lazy line with his thumb along the crotch seam of his trousers. Mycroft has never been one for racing.

The film lights up with its obligato scratches and floaters even as it fades to black. Mycroft, his mind swirled by whisky and tobacco, breathes it in. He has no idea what he’s in for. And there’s an extra frisson in that – in making his flesh and mind submit to a script he did not write and is not directing. _Do your worst_ , he mouthes at the first credits

**_HOTHOUSE FILMS_ **

**_PRESENT_ **

are slapped in oblique, hard-boiled lettering.

 A street shot in a city flooded with night lights. A crowd. The camera picks up a male figure and stalks his retreating back, encased in a vintage suit – broad-shouldered, belted high at the narrow waist as befitted this manly era, giving the long legs full play as they stride up the street. Mycroft reaches for his glass as a treacly trail of jazz ushers in the title. 

 

**_THE MAN WITH THE TWISTED SOUL_ **

**_A TALE OF LOSS, LUST AND UNSPEAKABLE LONGING_ **

 

The projector whirrs. The camera swerves to a door, its shiny dark back turned to the lens. The moment the man raps his gloved hand at it, the black door morphs into an ornamented black frame. Mycroft nods approval. Porn was still a silent genre in the Thirties, even with a lick of plot.

 

[ ](http://imgur.com/gBWfTzA)

 

Chasing it inside now, up a flight of stairs muffled by chiaroscuro. The curvature of the stairs has Mycroft’s cock twitch with _deja vu_. But another frame slides in, and Mycroft gives up on parsing his archives of Hothouse noir blue films. He drinks again.

 

[ ](http://imgur.com/WjI4gB8)

 

A door opens to a dazzling bedroom, its facing walls lined in a mosaic of glass panels so that the bed – the centerpiece – is reflected again and again, as is the man sprawled on it, his monogrammed bathrobe gaping over his bare chest. The overexposed light blurs his features, but spares his hand as it beckons the lens closer.

 

[ ](http://imgur.com/IyhY5E9)

 

St Clair drops to his knees in an exact move, its faultless line making it oddly - uninhibitedly - erotic. His fedora tumbles off, revealing a head of dark hair sleeked and pomaded close to the skull. Quick as a flash, the camera pounces on the show of skin between the tapering hair and the coat's turned-up collar, a white patch of _naked_ as the man bows his head. As if on cue, the bed-owner meets the claim with his own, wrapping his hand against the exposed neck. His thumb fondles it roughly, a signal for St Clair to lift his face again.

Mycroft mouthes the next words as they flash up. 

 

[ ](http://imgur.com/mOGN2mI)

 

 The last word is like current through Mycroft’s body – voltaic, clenching his spine with an emotion beyond guilt or shame. The jolt endures as the screen white-outs in light and a close up of Sherlock’s face, framed by the unfamiliar haircut. Sherlock’s eyes are clear pixels over fathomless pool of need, staring him in the face – blankly, unknowingly, until Mycroft remembers: St Clair is facing the wall. Disheveled, open-mouthed, his black tie limp around the rumpled collar of his shirt as John’s’s face looms into view behind him.

 

[ ](http://imgur.com/5Y9jFYD)

  

The scene pans out as Sherlock leans forward to the nearest mirror, then turns it into blurred hardness with a hot mist of breath. He pushes his tongue out, taut and humid, and draws a M with the tip on the surface. The picture is tauntingly clever – surely, not even Moriarty's model cam could manage that lower-angle shot of Sherlock’s jutting lip…

But John is hijacking the shot: a vertical man now, the puckered X marking his wound visible as the robe slips down below his waistline, and – yes, oh, dear Almighty, _yes_. Hard and smooth above, swollen and feral below.

 

[ ](http://imgur.com/vEd2e8R)

  

The screen breaks into a hundred Sherlocks, trapped in a hundred glass coffins. Too many roles, personas, too many reflections. Glass hides deep waters, too. _I am lost without your love, brother_. Mycroft’s mouth chases after the burn of whisky, the taste of smoke and mirrors.

No. No, no, _no_ , wake up to the game. Hardly their first. They’ve been here before, haven't they? To rile him. To mess up with Mycrof's tapes and his soul’s dark chamber. This? Is their turn of the screw. Only playtime, only a hundred Johns curling their arms around Sherlock’s waist so they can untie his belt, slip their hands up to each of the three buttons above, loitering at the last buttonhole to ease a slow finger in and out of it. 

On the voyeur’s hot seat, Mycroft squirms.

_Down and under we go…_

John doesn’t, in fact, bother with stripping off Sherlock. Instead, he lets each layer hang loose upon a promise of _less_ , merely banishing Sherlock’s trousers down his thighs, taut to quivering point. Sherlock is being plucked and flaunted by the light, his nipples between the flaps of his shirt two debauched blooms, still wet from the long suck each got from John; while the sidelong, glistening trail of John’s mouth stays visible between them, and under – down – across the vulnerable plane of Sherlock’s stomach and the cotton of his jockey briefs, their fly gorged inside and darkened outside by John’s saliva before they, too, are lowered.

Across the screen, through the looking-glass, Mycroft’s fingers part and slide and untruss Mycroft in tune. The jazz soundtrack is down to one violin, hauntingly familiar and utterly out of reach. A musical cue, guiding him to mimic – nearly – what he sees, matching pinch to suck until _his_ nipples are bruised by the mere proximity of the open air. His three-piece suit is period enough to fit into the illusion: John’s hands tug the white flannel down and Mycroft gropes for his own elastic waistband, his and Sherlock’s cock sprung free at a beat’s notice; his head flushed to a fig’s purple, ripe with juice, straining impossibly at the illusion of Sherlock being erect for him.

 _Insane. Insane, reckless and_ twisted, _you must stop,_ _I can’t stop it_ , _for God’s sake it’s just a game of shadows_. His hand poised over his groin, he stops. John is watching him, his eyes and mouth rigid with focus. Sherlock had stared at him unseeingly, but John’s gaze is knowing, commanding. Filling the gap between Sherlock’s needs and Mycroft’s self-punishing refusal to meet them, and making it clear that their loss is now his move. Picture John nods, and Mycroft, his mind crazed with endorphins, gives a thankful gasp as he takes himself in hand.

Time and space are squeezed to the patch of shining light where John now and unexpectedly drops to his knees. Nothing like the proprietary move Mycroft half expected from wall to bed, as John appears to be kneeling between Sherlock’s thighs and lapping them open. Mycroft pushes his own tongue between his lips, keeping his hand to a long stroke even as the pictures envelop _him_ in sensation. They’re fumbled; imperfect; the screen obscured at one point and obscenely clear the next as John diddles his tongue around the base of Sherlock’s scrotum only to stamp his mouth an inch further down and suck in the inner, tenderer flesh. Mycroft’s free hand nudges his thighs apart and pinches hard, leaving another dark blossom.

A sudden wider shot. John, standing again, stroking himself to full hardness. Mycroft has lost count of how many cameras must be in attendance: a total worthy of his family’s experienced madness with all things scopic. And he no longer cares who could be manning them, how many of Sherlock’s _voyous_ have been coralled to help mount this tableau for Mycroft’s benefit. If anything, the thought makes him dizzier as he pulls and pushes and kneads himself to a raw peak, topping each incoherent caress with a twist and a touch of nail to the slit. The camera rotates in tune, the violin lurid now, and shows him all the Sherlocks disposed in a straight line, their palms sealed to Sherlock’s as he abandons his weight to the glass, John half seen behind him. 

 

[ ](http://imgur.com/8wNDLC7)

 

Mycroft’s moan fills the dark warmth. The words, coarse-edged, explosive  in their direct address, are enough to fire a full cock ripple. He clamps a hand to the shiver; holds it, the pain-bliss of it like crude honey, all of his mind bent on not coming yet. On the screen, Sherlock’s eyes are shut as he closes his legs awkwardly. The tip of John’s cock can be seen between Sherlock’s firm-fleshed thighs before John begins to ease it and out, holding Sherlock steady. There’s a strange aura to the scene. Some of the coarseness still clings to it, but there is a sense of gentling and nurturing, as John rocks the two of them in his arms, his eyes on Mycroft; and Mycroft, last in row, rocks himself into their pace, his free arm held out to help brace Sherlock.

But it is the last shot which ends him. Sherlock’s face takes up the screen, brilliant with sweat, his mouth bitten and released in turn as it records the hard-drummed beat of pleasure up his groin. And then his brother’s eyes open, all nerves and mercury as he looks straight at Mycroft and loosens his lips. A gift, Mycroft understands. As was John’s gaze earlier. Each man’s body crafting a code for his twisted soul. No more frames needed, only the live motion of that ragged, unshadowed mouth – only its mute _With me_ – its counter-cry to all the times when Sherlock sank alone, and Mycroft only caught him on the rebound. 

His orgasm outlives his next breath and the real cry in it, melting even Sherlock’s convulsed face into rhythmic incandescence. It fills up Mycroft’s heart as it burns him out; leaves him open-ended, mobbed with sensations that can no longer answer to his ring-fenced taxinomy and a great nameless hope that will not be contained. 

There’s nothing else now. Only the self-absorbed whirr of the projector as the spool unwinds itself to an end. Mycroft watches it. Hope, faith, aftershock – name it as you will. Perhaps, when he can rise from that tangle of stickiness and clothes and become a tight-knit origami again, he’ll know that a film is a film is a fiction, and last year still not over. 

Or perhaps he’ll just stay here and look at the empty screen until it is their knock at his door.

A whirr, a stir. The screen pops into light again, and Mycroft’s heart widens first.

 

[ ](http://imgur.com/tqPnEUj)

 

(The End.)


End file.
